The Parents' Review

A Monthly Magazine of Home-Training and Culture

"Education is an atmosphere, a discipline, a life."
______________________________________

Formation of Habit, Part 3

by Helen Webb, M.B. Lond.Volume 3, 1892/93, pgs. 481-490

[A paper read before the Hampstead, Belgravian, and Reading Branches of the P.N.E.U.]

When the committee of the Hampstead Branch of the P.N.E.U. did me the
honour of asking me to address one of their meetings, they intended, I
believe, that I should say something on education from a distinctly
medical point of view.

I fear, however, that I am not about to speak upon what is generally
recognized as hygiene, though the ideas I wish to express have come to
me through my experience as a physician. This experience has brought to
me a strong conviction that parents and teachers may in many instances
do grave injury in the attempt to foster in children, as habits, series
of actions in themselves good. Thus my subject is not "bad habits"
versus
good ones, but certain habits versus others supposed to be good.

We are all, constantly though perhaps unconsciously, engaged in one or
other of three operations:
(a) Making of nerve-force.
(b) Storing of nerve-force.
(c) Expenditure and distribution of nerve-force.

It is obvious that we can neither store nor expend what we have not
got, and it naturally suggests itself, in the first place, that it is
better to expend from a store than to live in a hand-to-mouth manner
upon what has just been made.

The sequence of processes just mentioned is easily recognized in our
more purely animal life. But it does not perhaps occur to everyone that
the same thing is taking place in the region of those functions which
subserve our higher natures. Yet this is so, and by analysis and proper
recognition of each process, incalculable help can be given to the
moral and intellectual life.

Of the three functions--(1) making, (2) storing, and (3) expending
force--it is the second which, in the rush and hurry of to-day is most
neglected, and that by some of the most virtuous among us, and those
who aim at the highest ideals.

These are often the hard workers, more especially of what is called the
"practical type," who, in this busy life, expend their force, both
physical and mental, as soon as it is acquired. They become, as it
were, bankrupt, dissipating through many channels and as raw material
what, if stored, would ripen and develop quietly into great moral and
intellectual riches, and would benefit not only the individual himself
but his fellow-creatures, in a more abiding manner than the raw outcome
of restless activity can ever do.

I said that this neglect of storage was readily seen in the domain of
the animal functions. We all know that it is hard enough to get
enthusiastic and unselfish people to eat their meals regularly, and to
take the air and exercise necessary for the generating of physical
force; but it is ten times harder to induce them to give time to digest
those meals when eaten, to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, and to
obtain sufficient sleep. They do not seem to understand, or have faith
in, the inward processes which relate to the perfecting and storing of
force. So it is throughout life: the generating of force is fairly well
understood and receives something approaching to adequate care; much
ingenuity is exerted by the scholastic profession in devising
profitable ways of expending force; but, of how to store it, we know
little as yet. It is, however, tolerably sure that the possibility of
doing the latter at all depends very largely on the right treatment of
the whole question of the formation of habit. And it is of habit,
considered as a factor in the storing and distribution of mental and
moral force, that I wish here to speak.

"Every operation of the mind," says Mr. Sully, "leaves a trace behind
it which constitutes a disposition to perform the same operation, or
the same kind of operation, again." And further: "Each successive
activity modifies the mind, strengthening its tendency to act on that
particular side, or in that particular mode." We know well how actions,
complex enough to require at the outsell all the attention that can be
brought to bear upon them, even actions involving choice, may come by
repetition to be performed almost, or entirely, without consciousness.
Watch, for example, the progress of a young child who for the first
time tries some new feat--let us say to pull on a glove of that
well-known simple kind which boasts of a place for the thumb and one
common receptacle for the four fingers. The first time a left glove is,
as likely as not, selected for the right hand, and, with the very
hardest trying and all his attention, poor baby does not even succeed
in finding the opening at the wrist by which to get in. Next time this
is triumphantly discovered by the thumb, which gets into the larger
division. He is greatly pleased with this success. Later, by repeated
effort and experiment, a right glove is duly selected for a right hand,
and correctly drawn on without hesitation. Finally, a stage of perfect
habit is attained, when the child can laugh at the antics of the kitten
or puppy at the same moment as he is pulling on the glove.

We here distinguish two conditions of habit:
(1) Perfect habit in the narrowest sense, the final stage, when the
action is performed automatically, and attention is liberated for other
work.
(2) Habit in an earlier stage, where skill in the performance of the
action has by repetition reached a high perfection, but where the
action is still under the supervision of constant attention.

I shall have more to say later about these two conditions.

The strength of a habit, and the perfection with which it is formed,
depend chiefly upon the following elements:

(1) The amount of motive force brought to bear, and of attention given
to an action at the outset. The action should, it is obvious, be
perfect as a voluntary one before it becomes habitual. The will should
itself gain full possession of the action before handing it over to the
sub-conscious faculty, habit. And let me add to this, as a kind of
parenthesis, that we do not in every case exercise sufficient care to
ensure that all the intellectual nourishment possible shall be soaked
out of a new acquirement, that its idea shall be seized before the mere
action is allowed to become habitual. For instance: we wish, of course,
that each child should ultimately acquire the power of multiplying one
number by another automatically and mechanically; but no child ought to
make its first acquaintance with the multiplication table (as many, I
fear, have done in old days) in the shape of a dogmatic statement to be
learned by rote. To each child in turn the products of multiplication
should be a series of illuminating facts worked out by personal
calculation; thus they will afford food for the intellectual
imagination, and opportunity for efforts of abstract though. All good
teachers are now aware of the importance of this principle in
elementary arithmetic; but later on it is too much forgotten in the
hurry of preparing for examinations, and therefore I would urge the
importance of seeing that each acquirement of a pupil yields all it can
of intellectual food before it passes into the condition of habit;
because, once it has done this, the peculiar vitalizing power of new
and unfamiliar achievement is irretrievably lost.

(2) The second element in the formation of habit is the frequency with
which the action is performed. When we consider that the creation of a
habit involves some definite modification of brain texture, we realize
that repetition is of the utmost importance, in order to establish, so
to speak, a satisfactory right of way.

(3) The third element is association of one idea with another. Habit is
more easily formed if the action be repeated in similar circumstances.
The way in which association may strengthen and revive
brain-impressions is amusingly illustrated by a story related by Dr.
Oliver Wendell Holmes:

"A certain lecturer, after performing in an inland city, where dwells a
litteratrice of note, was invited to meet her and others over the
social teacup. She pleasantly referred to his many wandering in his new
occupation. 'Yes,' he replied, 'I am like the huma, the bird that never
lights, being always on the cars, as he is always on the wing.' Years
elapsed. The lecturer visited the same place once more for the same
purpose. Another social cup after the lecture, and a second meeting
with the distinguished lady. 'You are constantly going from place to
place,' she said. 'Yes,' he answered, 'I am like the huma,' and
finished
the sentence as before.

"What horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this fine
speech, word for word, twice over! Yet it was not true, as the lady
might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embellished his
conversation with the huma daily during that whole interval of years.
On the contrary, he had never once thought of the odious fowl until the
recurrence of precisely the same circumstances brought up precisely the
same idea."

This was an instance in which association was so strong as to reawaken
what had been a comparatively faint impression.

Now, almost any action can be transformed into a habit, granted
suitable circumstances and stimuli. But it is not equally desirable
that all, even good, actions should become so established. This is the
point to which I would specially invite attention. Many people seem to
imagine that if a thing be good in itself, it cannot become too
habitual. This I believe to be a conclusion based on no evidence, and
physiologically untrue. Many things, excellent in themselves, tend,
when often repeated, to injure and cramp the whole nature; and are
directly deadening to true development possible. These things, when
habitual, shed force wastefully; while other things, perhaps much less
important in themselves, in proportion as they are habitual, lessen
friction, clear the ground for larger effort, and so become the means
of storing little by little enormous volumes of force and latent power.
Careful judgment has therefore to be exercised in deciding to what
extent any given action should be allowed to pass from under the
superintendence of attention.

Now, granting all this, is it possible to make use of the idea which I
have suggested, for a true classification of habits? Can we bring any
test to show which (among the things good to do) are made injurious,
and which, on the contrary, are made more useful, by becoming habitual?

I think that we can do the former; and steadily endeavour to find the
latter.

It seems to me that all actions, in any sense desirable, can be classed
under one or other of the following heads--viz.:
(1) Things which it is best should be done without attention, and as
mere mechanical habits.
(2) Things which it is best should be done as habit, but under the
direction of conscious attention.
(3) Things which are of the highest importance in a positive direction,
but which for that very reason should be done seldom, and should then
engage the whole attention and absorb all the force available at the
time.

These last should never be allowed to crystallize into habit.

To the first of these classes belong a great variety of things, all of
importance and all constantly required, things about which, as it were,
we can give standing orders, and which are rather means to ends than
ends in themselves.

Concerning most of the every-day performances of common life, it may be
said that little harm can be done by mechanicalising them (always
provided that the action is first made perfect under the guidance of
attention). And if no harm can come, good will probably follow. Perhaps
it may seem absurd to say that when one automatically rubs one's muddy
boots upon a door-mat, avoids slamming doors, and behaves properly at
table, without stopping each time to decide upon one's course of
action, one is storing nervous and moral force. This, however, I
believe to be the case. No one doubts that he who drives his quill
mechanically has more power available for the expression of his
thoughts in writing, than the man (no matter how full of ideas his
brain may be) who has to give attention to the formation of each letter
as he writes it. Not a few things which become important virtues when
practiced as habits under this head, are nothing very wonderful in
themselves, but borrow their loveliness from the fact that they are
good brooms and clear obstacles out of the way of more important
things. Take punctuality, for instance. There is nothing inherently
virtuous in a child being down to breakfast by half-past eight. If
there were we might censure our neighbours because their bell rings at
eight, nine, or ten. All the same, whatever is the rule of the house
must be adhered to, and force is stored by having such fixed points in
the day. Furthermore, unpunctuality may obstruct serious matters and
real wrong be brought about. Such reasons for attaching importance to
trifles which we wish to impress as habits, ought to be more frequently
made clear to children. Otherwise we set obstacles in the way of that
task, so difficult to nearly all that many fail ever to accomplish
it--viz., the attainment of the power of estimating the relative
importance of the various factors of life, the position of each with
regard to the other in the great Unity of things.

The practice of many virtues of wide application and of several
attitudes of mind seem to me to come into this first class of things.
For example, truthfulness and accuracy (which is, if people would only
recognise it, another form of truthfulness), that unobtrusive
observation which the student of Nature must constantly exercise, and
such as makes in great part the really sympathetic friend, and that
reverence for the Unknown which prevents us from despising what lies
outside the limits of our own understanding.

Those people who have to bring voluntary thought to bear upon what
ought to be habit, and those who need not do so because good habits are
ingrained, may be compared respectively to two households.

In the first of these the mistress (Attention) gives standing orders to
her well-trained servants about all the things to which such orders are
applicable. She possesses proper household appointments, has calculated
with fair accuracy the supplies used in the month, and has them sent in
with regularity, pays her bills at fixed intervals, and so on. In such
a household the special orders necessary each day occupy only a very
short time, and a large margin remains over for husband and children
and friends, to say nothing of study, society, and public work.

In the other house, the mistress is generally unpunctual. If she is in
time it is by special effort. She gives contradictory orders, and
probably does not procure a fresh supply of anything until all that was
in the house is used up. She is after her servants from morning to
night, and goes to bed weary. Her husband says (with a sigh) that
although she is the best of wives, she never has time to speak to him.
The children would give anything for a little quiet time with mother,
but it is never to be had. Does she read? "Oh no! the mother of a
family never has time for such things!" All this disorganization and
waste of energy takes place because the whole day Madam Attention has
been doing work which she ought to have handed over to her housekeeper,
Habit, and because she has been putting her best energies into things
which, if they had once been properly started, would have gone very
well alone. If Attention is bound down and occupied, over-anxious about
many things, the higher side of life is sure to suffer.

The second class of things, those which it is best should be done as
habits, but under the direction of conscious attention, are those which
must be done often and regularly, but which are worth nothing unless
they retain life and mobility as an inherent part of them. If not kept
alive by conscious attention they run to seed, or stiffen up and block
progress. In our parable these are represented by those things about
which our model woman gives daily orders, and which, though often
repeated, require frequent modification and rearrangement. If Attention
be over worked, such duties must either remain neglected, or become
confused hopelessly with the routine work of the first class.

Many instances of what, for brevity sake, I will call "habits with
attention," must occur to all present. As an example, I may mention
politeness of speech as contrasted with actions of common good breeding
before referred to. Provided a person rubs his shoes on the door-mat
and takes off his hat on coming into a house, it is no part of the
essence of things that he should be aware that he is doing so. But the
same unconsciousness when shown in personal politeness, in a smile of
formal courtesy, or meaningless expression of pleasure or gratitude, is
highly to be deprecated.

Again, a habit of looking at the other side of every question is of
paramount importance, but it is essential that it should be done with
some slight effort of conscious attention. When so done it constitutes
in the sphere of intellect the basis of logic, in that of morals the
basis of justice. But if you allow the custom of looking at the
opposite side to that first perceived to degenerate into pure habit
without attention, it will result in more contradictoriness. Another
instance--the wish to remedy an end as soon as it is perceived--should
be
assiduously cultivated as a habit, yet it is one which will be
beneficial or injurious according as active conscience and attention
are brought to bear upon it or not. In the former case, such desire is
the foundation of all real reform; in the latter, it most likely means
the application of hackneyed and unsuitable remedies, rushed into
without forethought, and which probably make the latter of that evil
worse than the first.

I am afraid some present may think that I have selected rather
out-of-the-way instances. They have been, however, just jotted down as
they arose.

Now, the question arises, what in these cases becomes of force?
Attention, which means the exercise of our higher centres, is always
costly; but we may so invest as to reap a rich return, and if one
thinks the matter over it becomes evident that force expended in
preventing an action which ought not to be mechanical from becoming so,
is in great part force invested, not squandered.

Now, of the things of the third class which are of great importance,
but which, for that very reason, should be done seldom, and should then
engage the whole attention and absorb the whole force available at the
time, I shall not say much.

Under this head are included strong expressions of affection, high
emotional states, uplifting religious fervour, and all feeling which
rises to a great height. These are among the most precious things of
life; but the level is too high to be kept constant without overstrain.
If we allow each manifestation to fade away quietly and naturally, it
will come again in due time; but try to make it habitual, it will first
degenerate, then become a mere husk, and gradually degrade the
character upon which it is forced.

I hope I shall not be misunderstood if I express the opinion that some
religious teachers have done infinite harm by trying in this way to
render habitual what is in its nature rare. At best a distressing
reaction sets in; but worse and more often a permanent spiritual
deadness is the result of such overstrain.

In these manifestations of force, the expenditure is enormous; so much
so that in order not to impoverish and render bankrupt they necessitate
quiet intervals of storage time. This has been so fully recognized by
some that they pass to an opposite extreme, and stamp all strong
feeling as in its own nature bad, and to be at all times forbidden. I
believe, however, that, occurring at intervals, high emotions are in
their essence creative, and that out of each, when normal, emerges some
new form of finer force, which purifies and strengthens character. Thus
we rise "on stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher things."

In conclusion. It may be objected that I have not given any specific
directions. This is precisely what I want to avoid doing. It is much
too generally assumed that if a thing is certainly good to do, it must
as certainly be desirable to make a habit of it. The classification of
the subject is as yet in a chaotic condition, and my profession has no
more right than any other class of people to speak ex cathedra about
the details. What we do know is the importance of the subject, and the
need for some classification and the growth of public opinion.

At this stage, what is desirable is, not that my view or anybody else's
view should be adopted, as to which good things should, and which
should not, be allowed to become mechanical habits; but that parents
and teachers should have their attention attracted to the subject, and
be encouraged to make observations which in the future may form the
basis of more extensive knowledge than we at present possess.